


A knight and a fool

by Minita



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-04 01:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21189227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minita/pseuds/Minita
Summary: Jon goes to Winterfell to get supplies for the Night’s Watch, he opens his heart to Sansa





	A knight and a fool

Sansa.

The evening began with them talking about Bran and Sam, and the news that Gilly is now on her third pregnancy. Sansa also tells him Ser Brienne left King’s Landing to go to her father’s in Tarth. Jon’s smile is sincere but his eyes tell a different story. Even his voice is sad when he finally asks for news of Arya, there was a time Sansa would have felt jealous of all the attention he gives to Arya, of all the shared banter and sword stories or whatever it is they talk about.

When the gates opened at Castle Black and she looked at him, she realised with a bolt of lightning that this rugged man with a scarred face was no longer the half brother she had known. As it turns out, he wasn’t even her brother at all and nothing has been the same since. “She writes occasionally” she says as she watches Jon nod slowly. His raven curls are overgrown and bounce all over when he sinks on the chair or leans to place his mug on the table. Jon’s eyelashes are so long they draw shadows on his cheeks and his eyes are so dark it’s hard to tell what they are gazing into in the dim light of the candles.

She watches him drink his ale slowly, and for a moment she is engrossed by his thick lips, a bit cracked by the cold. She wants to ask him how he’s doing at the Wall, ask him if he’s happy, or at least content, but then she remembers those are the men that stabbed him and instead volunteers, “last I heard Arya was staying at Storm’s End,”

Jon frowns and asks, “Storm’s End?”

“Yes,” Sansa explains, “visiting Gendry.”

Something lights on behind Jon’s eyes and he mutters, “I see.”

This seems like a good moment to share her news, “I am to marry,” she says and sips from her cup.

Jon sputters, choking on his ale, “marry?”

Sansa nods and keeps his gaze until her stomach flutters and she has to look down on her lap like a blushing maiden. Jon collects himself and seems to go back to his accustomed silences but it doesn’t last long.

His voice is strangely cold, as if he were choosing his words deliberately when he finally speaks, “I’m surprised”

“why?” she asks, and meets his gaze again.

This time is him who looks away, finding something extremely interesting on the wooden beams of the ceiling. “No reason,” he says, “just, I didn’t think you’ll be so inclined, that’s all.”

As they both remain quiet, she hears the logs crack in the fireplace. She’s not unfamiliar to the cold nights when she wakes up calling for her dead, hoping to have her mother with her to braid and brush her hair while they chat, missing Arya with those deep grey eyes just like Jon’s, just like father’s.

She no longer sheds the endless rivers of tears she cried at King’s Landing but Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, the Red Wolf, the first Queen of Winter, is no stranger to loneliness. Neither is Jon. Of all the people, he’s the one she thought will be happy for her, but it seems she was wrong about that.

“It’s not out of desire, believe me,” she talks a bit too fast, “but out of duty.”

“I think not” Jon snorts, and refuses to make eye contact with her.

Sansa watches him stand up and pace around the room, until finally he says, “after everything that has happened, how can you?”

Sansa laughed at first, startling the solemn lords of her council when they first brought up the subject to her, but the more she thought about it, the more sense it made.

She takes a deep breath and says, “it’s simple, really, a child could understand, everyone is worried that our freedom is at risk if something happens to me.”

Jon doesn’t seem to take notice, currently turning his back on her, so she goes on, “Arya’s children with Gendry will be Baratheons, and heirs to the Stormlands, we need an heir, a Prince at Winterfell, a Stark to continue our legacy, to keep our peace and everything we fought for.”

Jon turns around and takes a step towards her, and Sansa has to look up to him from her chair as he says frowning, “don’t do it, you are Queen, they can’t make you”

“I want to,” she says, “it’s what my people need, it’s my job.”

“No,” says Jon, “you are Queen, you can do what you want,”

He takes another step, so close to Sansa she can smell the ale on him.

“A Queen can do what she wants?” She says exasperated, “is that what you learnt with your dragon whore?”

Jon’s eyes widen and his jaw clenches but he says nothing.

He resumes pacing, and she explains, “a Queen does as her people demand, however grievous to herself, believe me, I escaped Joffrey very closely and nearly didn’t survive the Lannister and the Bolton, I wish there was another option, but there isn’t.”

Jon seems to weight her words quietly, dark eyes all seeing.

“There is, don’t do it,” he says.

Sansa contemplates him. In the past two years she has often thought of his beloved face, of the beard she wishes she could caress, of those unsettling eyes, sometimes the thoughts come with anger, with a twisting feeling in her gut when she remembers what he did, how he took her as his Queen, as his lover. Lately though, his face comes to her at bedtime, right before she falls asleep and she has found it to be reassuring somehow. Not that she will ever tell him that.

“I’m decided. Lord Dustin will be here in a couple of days” she says, lifting her chin.

Jon raises his voice, “Lord Dustin?” “Yes,” She says, “you know, the Dustins from the barrowlands. He fulfilled all the requisites.”

“Requisites?” he asks with a frown.

“Well, any husband of mine has to be born and raised in the North of course, his loyalty must be beyond reproach, he is to be not too young but enough to give me children, and...his house should not be a big one. It has to be someone that would not let his pride get in the way when I name our children Stark.”

Jon’s eyes pierce through her skin, her bones, all the way to her very soul, and she listens in disbelief as Jon says, “I also fulfil the requisites. Pick me”

She chuckles and says lightly, “nice joke.” But when Jon takes her hand in his big, heavy, rough hands, Sansa curses her own stupidity and prays to the gods he doesn’t notice her blushing.

Jon whispers, “I’m actually not born in the North, but, I was raised by Ned Stark, here in this very castle, with his true born children, my mother was Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. I’m young enough and I don’t have any pride left.”

Sansa chokes a bit but Jon hasn’t finished and goes on, “granted, my loyalty to the North is not beyond reproach but... I was hoping you would overlook it”

The Queen in the North is not a swooning maid, she has slain giants and brought down dragons and with an effort she composes herself and says nonchalantly, “were you?”

“Yes,” Jon says, “I...I will never be cruel to you. I will take care of you.”

Sansa is grateful for the chair, for she’s certain her legs will give way. “Well, he...will be here soon, so it’s too late” she says.

“No, it’s not,” says Jon, “send him a raven, cancel the appointment.”

Sansa was always an obedient child, eager to please to get the praise of the grownups, and she would like to think of herself as the least reckless person there is and yet, for a second she entertains the notion of running away, of leaving the crown and all her responsibilities and go, with him. She would not ever care where to. But she is not Jonquil and he’s not Florian.

“Jon, I can’t do that. The raven has being sent” she says.

“Well, if you are decided,” Jon says, “I’ll be gone in the morrow”

“You are being ridiculous, you just arrived yesterday. Stay. Please. You could at least meet him,” as she says this Jon stands very still and she realises her hand is sweaty where he’s touching her.

“I don’t want to meet him, this isn’t a competition, you either choose me or you don’t” Jon says.

Sansa cannot believe he would dare, after everything he has done is she supposed to forget about it? And she certainly shouldn’t trust him again, should she?

“I will be damned if I were to choose you. The lords will be furious, after what you did, after the truth about you, you would be their last choice,”Sansa sputters, as all the past comes back at her, hitting her like waves.

Why her? What did that woman give him? she used to question herself over and over, her mind spinning, when Jon insisted in following her south, in supporting her flawed military decisions, in overestimating her dragons, and underestimating Cersei. And yet, none of that mattered, none of that was her reason when she set foot in that dock and realised Jon was a dead man.

But he always manages to twist her, to drive her mad with emotion, with this childish game where he provokes and then retreats. Jon stares at her and slowly withdraws his hands. Sansa hadn’t realised she was holding them in both of hers, and he says, I shall leave you to rest, you are tired. Good night.”

He paces to the door without turning his back on her and closes the door leaving behind his smell. A hint of musk and leather, and Sansa realises she had forgotten what a man smelled like.

Jon.

People used to call him the white wolf, and many were afraid of his dire wolf at Castle Black, but in spite of the dreams he occasionally has, he has never found himself to be wolf like, never. The cunning nature of the animal, its thirst for blood, its strength, didn’t seem to apply to him. Their patience, thought, the way they stalk their prey, slowly circling them, working tirelessly to get their prize, that he could always relate to, that he had always desired to cultivate for himself.

He observed Stannis, at some point perhaps even admired him, but Jon wouldn’t agree to break his vows, he refused him and yet he secured ships from him. He allowed the Red Woman to join them, but he never fell for her stories, for her assurances of a god that would yield power if he worshipped him. At Dragonstone he waited, and waited, and kept quiet until she relented. But he can’t find the strength to wait now, the thought of losing her forever hurts deep in his soul, her hair and voice are a constant call, like the woods call on Ghost.

She is right, of course, he is the wrong choice, the northern lords despise him or fear him, or both, and even so, even so, he wishes it were him. Him she would choose, to keep, to bed. To bed. What kind of brother thinks that way about his own sister? Cousin. Cousin, he reminds himself.

“Gods,” he prays, “Gods of my mother, help me, for what I want, I cannot have.”

The Weirdwood leaves rustle but there’s no answer from the carved face that bleeds tears. Another rustle, but this of skirts, it’s Sansa. He raises from his knees and tells her he will leave that day and Sansa just stares at him. Gods, her lips are the colour of ripe cherries, if he could just...

“Don’t, please” she pleads, and the leaves now seem to talk loudly.

“I have no reason to stay, you were right last night, I’m the wrong choice, besides, you don’t want me, it’s clear. I wish you happiness,” he says.

Sansa stands still, her perfectly braided hair against the white of the snow and the trees blinds him with beauty. He paces to her, all his clothes and cloak black, a stain in a pure world of white and with his black gloved hands he brushes her fingertips.

He says, “You never had a chance to choose before, but now you do, choose a husband you like, and don’t let anyone tell you you can’t. Not even me.”

Sansa doesn’t take away her hands, but averts her eyes. Soon her warmth sips through and he starts sweating, scanning her face, hoping against hope.

“I know I don’t deserve you, after what I did,” he confesses.

Sansa still doesn’t look at him in the eye but under the clothes and the elaborated braiding of a Northern Queen Jon can glimpse the sweet girl she was, always with a song in her lips and a needle in her hands.

The leaves are quiet again, as is Sansa. Jon asks her, “do you remember father used to say that we couldn’t lie at the hearth tree?”

Sansa shakes her head, still not looking at him, and then says slowly, “I haven’t prayed in years, Jon”

Jon never dared ask her about it but rumours of Ramsay’s cruelty reached even the far North, stories of flaying and what he trained his dogs to do, and he saw for himselfwhat was left of Theon after he had fallen in his trap. Jon feels an invisible stab to the heart at the thought of what he was, of what he did to her.

He holds her hands tightly and pulls her to the tree. She remains silent but stands in front of the carved face, deep in her thoughts or her memories perhaps, “me too,” Jon thinks, “I also hurt her.”

“Sansa, I’m sorry for what I did, for the way I ignored your warnings, I should have never trusted her, I was wrong, forgive me,” he says.

Sansa turns to him and says, “I don’t want your apologies, you left me alone, you were flying dragons instead of helping me,” she raises her voice, “you had no right to give up your crown, to led down your people!”

Jon shifts in his feet but stands his ground and doesn’t let go of her hands, “aye, you’re right, but if I hadn’t, we would not be having this conversation, I did what I had to do for the North.”

Sansa’s eyes are wide and red, Jon thinks she may cry, but she doesn’t, she swallows hard and says, “I also did what I had to do for the North” she makes a pause and then says, “I want to know why you did it.”

Jon’s shame, his pain, his mistakes, all comes back to him at once, she deserves it, she deserves the truth, “I.. I don’t know” he says, feeling like a fool.

“Did you love her?” Sansa asks, so close to him he can smell the herbs of her bath in her hair.

“I wanted to. I thought she was good, she said, she said all the right things,” he explains, “I knew we couldn’t defeat them and we needed her dragons, and afterwards, I kept thinking if she got her throne, she would...”

Sansa cuts him, “change? That all of the sudden she would be good? You knew what she was! What she did to Sam’s family! How could you?”

She yanks away from him and Jon grabs her and hugs her as she tries to pull away, sobbing.

She’s so tall her chin touches Jon’s forehead, but she has narrow shoulders and her frame is so thin that Jon wraps one arm around her waist and with his free hand, he strokes her hair gently.

After a moment Sansa’s crying subsides little by little and Jon realises they’re swaying, slowly rocking each other, “You should have told me,” Sansa says, “you should have trusted me with the truth, you should have told me your doubts, I could have helped you.”

Jon looks at her eyes, at her lips, and he knows he’s grinning like a fool when he teases her, “helped me? How? Would you have taken her dragon all by yourself?”

Sansa’s weight is against his chest, he tightens his arms around her and it feels good, “Well,” Sansa begins, “I have taken a giant, Arya wielded the knife but, it was me, I confessed everything to Lord Royce, I told him what he had done and he understood, he understood I was afraid, and alone at the Vale and he said his men would stand down” She pauses for an instant, and Jon senses her tremble a bit.

She starts whispering, “one may say I killed Joffrey too,”

“what?” Jon asks in shock, “Joffrey?”

Sansa nods, and smiles, “if I hadn’t told Lady Olenna, he might still be alive.” She turns to the tree and observes the face.

Gods, Jon wonders how she could survive all, her skin might be porcelain but she’s made of steel. “Sansa,” he asks her, taking a step towards the tree, “help me, help me pray.” The leaves seem to sing as they kneel, holding hands.

When they stand up Sansa turns to him and takes his face in her hands, leans her forehead on his, steeping a little. Their warm breath mingles in the chilly air, snow already beginning to fall, when Jon clears his throat and says, “you should write to Lord Dustin.”

Sansa looks back at him and tells him, “I lied. There is no Lord Dustin, I never sent that raven.”

Jon breaths with relief, “I’m so glad, now I won’t have to kill him.” Sansa laughs, and Jon holds her thigh and brushes her lips with his, barely.

“Jon,” she says, “you are a fool.” Jon chuckles as the leaves resume their chatter.

“Aye”he says, “all men are fools when love is concerned, Your Grace.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something short where Jon confesses his feelings first and Sansa plays hard to get.


End file.
